It’s February and I’m looking for buds.
The purple blanket of creeping crocuses will explode on our neighbor’s lawn soon and it’s countdown mode for spring. Three weeks until the Philadelphia Flower Show, that nose-heavy, noisy meander through nature’s blessing, and I can’t wait. An opportunity to see what new plants will be popular. Time to consider if your property could, in any possible way, resemble a chateau in Paris.
I’m a middling gardener. Before my husband and I bought our current home, I wanted nothing to do with dirt. No back-twisting weed yanking. No entrenched dirt in my palms’ otherwise optimistic lifelines. No primping of colorful displays determined to self-extinguish despite my best efforts.
Then we accidently bought a house.